


(Jingle) All the Way

by marginaliana



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: AU no wives/kids, Christmas, Established Relationship, M/M, Road Trips, TGS Secret Santa 2015, fest fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5488406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>″You can buy anything you like,″ said the challenge card, ″so long as it costs under one thousand pounds, and is red.″ A 2014 Christmas special. [Argentina never happened – they did this instead.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Jingle) All the Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wyvernchick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyvernchick/gifts).



**Day -10, 11:42 am: Dunsfold**

″What the hell kind of a challenge is this?″ Jeremy said, brandishing the rectangle of the challenge card in front of the camera like a bullfighter's cape. James took a hurried step back, reflecting as he did so that, if this was any indication of Jeremy's mood, the Christmas special was shaping up to be a particularly manic one.

″Are you going to tell us what it says, or are you just going to papercut us both into oblivion?″ Richard asked. Jeremy smacked him across the back of the head with the card.

_Oh, god, who am I kidding?_ James thought. _Of course it's going to be manic._ They were all a little on edge. Jeremy's contract was up in January and James' and Richard's in March. They hadn't talked about what they were going to do next; James wasn't entirely sure he wanted to talk about it. He mainly wanted it to _have been_ talked about, have been decided without any of the awkwardness of actually having the conversation or even figuring out what it was that he actually wanted.

Eventually Jeremy tired of attempting to poke Richard's eye out with the corner of the card and held it out in front of himself at arm's length instead, squinting a little at the writing. ″You can buy anything you like,″ he declaimed, ″so long as it costs under one thousand pounds, and is red.″ 

″Red?″ said James, thinking that perhaps he'd better say something but regretting the impulse when it became clear he had nothing particularly useful to offer.

″Red,″ Jeremy said.

″Ahhh,″ said Richard and then, when they both turned to look at him, ″Well, isn't it obvious?″

 

**Day 1, 5:08 pm: Kaş, Turkey**

James was the last one to turn up, as per usual, though it was only half because of his normal hopelessness and half actually intentional. He wanted the cameras rolling when he arrived; if they were, it was good odds they'd just dive right into the shoot and he wouldn't have to talk to Richard or Jeremy at all, outside of the obligatory 'who's bought the most shit car' argument. 

It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to them – they hadn't seen each other in nearly a week and a half (hadn't seen each other in private for more like a month) and he thought he would actually rather like to know what they'd been up to in the meantime. The two of them always knew how to make meetings and car reviews and drinking of tea sound far more interesting than any of it would have been to experience.

It was just that, if they had a moment alone, one of them might start trying to talk about the elephant in the room, and despite everything, James still didn't have the faintest idea how he wanted the conversation to go. Would they want to sign on for a few more years – would _he_ want to sign on for a few more years? Or was he done, ready to move on to other projects? There was certainly no shortage of those. But he suspected that his own answers to those questions had rather a lot to do with the answers of his co-presenters. It was all too complicated to contemplate, just at the moment; every time he'd tried to sit down and really decide, he'd only ended up giving himself a headache.

And anyway he was here now, in Turkey, in a fairly terrible Mazda, at the beginning of a week long trip that was (probably/possibly) the last major thing they'd ever do together. He was bloody well going to enjoy it while it lasted. 

The sat-nav that the crew had programmed in took him to a shady-looking garage in the middle of nowhere in particular. As he came around the corner of the building he could see two red cars there already, a host of crew and cameras, and Jeremy and Richard in the middle of it all like they always were, half bent to look in the passenger's side door of a—

Was that a _Lamborghini_?

James wondered which of them had bought it. Something as mad as that, there was no telling. He steeled himself and pulled up beside it. 

The hooting began before he'd even opened the door.

″May, this might be the worst thing you've ever bought.″ This was Jeremy, grinning and bright-eyed. 

″I'm afraid to even breathe on it!″ And that was Richard, his hair sticking up every which way in the autumn wind.

James loved them both, god help him. ″At least I'm not pretending it's still nineteen seventy eight,″ he said, getting out. 

Jeremy pouted. ″Don't try to pretend you didn't have a poster of this hung on your wall,″ he said, gesturing towards the Lambo.

″Don't be ridiculous, Jez,″ said Richard. ″By seventy eight I'm sure he'd graduated to pretentious art posters and pictures of cats.″

″And what have _you_ bought?″ James asked, trying not to smile too much. ″A pinnacle of artistic design, I'm sure. Or is it that heap of rust over there?″ 

″It's a BMW!″ Richard said proudly, leading the way over. ″Coupe, even.″ It was red, for the most part, and looked like it was about three minutes from falling over, but that was par for the course, really. James wondered if Richard had named it already. While Richard reeled off the model number and various statistics, James began to amuse himself by wondering what name it would be. Piers? Alastair? Perhaps those were too British for a BMW. Maybe it'd be Friedrich.

″Hammond, you plonker, it's November,″ he said, as Richard demonstrated the functioning of the soft top.

″Yes, which is why I've ensured that the heated seats still work.″

″That's not a seat,″ Jeremy said, pointing through the window. ″It's a hammock with a heating coil in it. You're going to burn your gentleman's bits off, is what's going to happen there.″ James peered in at the seat, noting the ripped fabric; he thought Jeremy rather had a point.

″It'd be a terrible shame if he did burn them off,″ James said, and then, ″wait, no, sorry. The opposite of that.″

″Ha,″ Richard said flatly. ″At least my car isn't overcompensating!″ He made a gesture in the direction of the Lambo that was probably just this side of acceptable for the pre-watershed audience.

Behind Iain, one of the runners shrugged on the white lab coat and pulled out the challenge card from a large manilla envelope. James let him walk into the shot, then took the card as Richard and Jeremy carried on arguing. He read it silently to himself, made an exaggerated face, and then waited for a chance to get a word in edgewise. 

This took some time. 

Eventually the argument devolved into a vague slap fight and James cleared his throat. It was becoming more and more difficult not to grin at them. ″Shall I read the challenge then, gentlemen? Or do you want to tear each other's hair out first?″

″He hasn't got anything left to pull out!″ said Richard.

″How would you know, shortarse?″ said Jeremy. ″You can't even see that high without a ladder _and_ a telescope.″

James cleared his throat again, more pointedly, and they subsided. When they were looking attentively at him, James read, ″It is Christmas, and elves are needed to deliver toys to good little girls and boys. You will begin your journey here in what used to be the region of Lycia, in Turkey, the home of the original Saint Nicholas. Along the way you will pick up some presents which you must deliver to the Evelina Children's Hospital in London.″

For a moment, all three of them turned to regard Jeremy's very sleek Lamborghini with its non-existent boot space. ″Ahahaha!″ said Richard. ″You've had it, and we haven't even started.″

″Don't get so excited,″ James said. ″There's more.″ Jeremy made a 'get on with it' gesture. James read, ″Since it is Christmas, you must all arrive together at the finish line. If any one of your cars does not make it, all three of you will have to stand in front of the children and tell them that Santa isn't coming.″

The smile dropped off of Richard's face. ″We're doomed,″ he said.

″You have until 9 am tomorrow to make any modifications you like to your cars,″ James finished, ″as well as make them each suitably holiday-themed.″

″Right, that's my job,″ said Jeremy immediately. ″You two do the faffy bits, I'll Christmas it all up.″ 

″How come _we_ have to do all the dirty work?″ Richard protested.

″Do you really want the success of this entire trip to hinge on my ability to make that Lambo go from here to London?″ asked Jeremy. 

James opened his mouth, then shut it again.

″Point,″ said Richard. 

 

**Day 2, 8:34 am: still Kaş, Turkey**

They'd worked all bloody night. Well, the three of them had – the crew had given up around midnight, having filmed more than enough footage. James thought the sequence of Jeremy getting paint up his nose would be rather spectacular.

He and Richard had fallen into an easy rhythm doing the real work – assessing issues, divvying up the tasks, requesting and handing each other tools. James had tried not to wonder if this would be the last time they ever did it. They'd started with the Lambo first, on the assumption that it would probably need the most going over, and didn't manage to get to the other cars until nearly two in the morning; in the end it hadn't been worth going to the hotel, and they'd each snatched an awkward hour's cat-nap in their passenger seats just as the sun began to peek over the horizon.

It wasn't the worst place they'd all slept together, but it was pretty high on the list. At least the crew had brought breakfast.

After something that vaguely approached tea, in that it was wet and tasted of leaves, and a cold egg sandwich each, they turned the cameras on and did the dramatic reveal.

The Lamborghini had new brake lines, a mostly intact radiator, something approaching working electrics, and fresh oil. It also had ″Elf Service Garage″ written across the bonnet, with a terrible vinyl decal of a female elf in a skimpy outfit standing over an up-turned sleigh. James wondered where the crew had got it, but he figured it was probably better not to inquire. Richard's BMW had a truly epic amount of of fake snow around the roof line, covering the duct tape they'd used to make it somewhat more waterproof, and it said ″Unwrapping Specialist″ on the doors in a jaunty looking font that made James feel the same sort of passionate hatred he usually reserved for substandard DIY. The seats had been re-covered in white fur. James' Mazda still made an alarming sort of rattle as it came out of the garage into the yard, but it had all new belts and a working heater, and it said ″Something Special in the Sack!″ on each side. 

″And guess what else I've done,″ Jeremy said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a pair of remote controls, each on its own key ring. When he activated the first one, Richard's BMW played 'Jingle Bell Rock' very loudly out of a set of tinny speakers nestled in the fake snow. James hadn't actually noticed him installing those; it had probably happened while he was elbows deep in a Lamborghini engine. The Mazda, it transpired, played 'Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.'

″What about yours?″ Richard asked. 

″No time,″ Jeremy said, with his best faux-innocent expression. It was dreadfully endearing, even despite the prospect of having to hear that song a hundred times over the course of the week. ″You two were so hard at work on the Lamborghini all night, so I had to make do with just a little bit of decoration.″

″I think you might literally be Satan,″ Richard said, admiringly. 

″I think you'll find that's _Santa_ , Hammond,″ Jeremy said. ″C'mon, where's your holiday spirit?″

″Would you like to know where you can stick your holiday spirit?″ asked Richard. ″Because I'm afraid I'm going to demonstrate it to you quite forcibly unless you give me that remote.″

Jeremy laughed and dangled the remotes above his head. ″Come and get it, then.″ Richard hesitated and looked off into the distance, obviously trying to play it cool. But the tightening of his shoulders gave it away, and when he finally made the grab, Jeremy was already moving out of reach. Richard tumbled half over the bonnet of the Lambo, scrambled up it to gain height, and then leapt at him.

It was not by any means a successful leap. Jeremy danced out of reach, holding the remotes above his head and cackling wildly. 

_Manic,_ James thought. He considered joining in – with two on one they might actually have a chance of success – but surely it would be funnier later and anyway he was too exhausted to get too close just now. Jeremy and Richard could play silly buggers with each other at any time of the day or night, but he had always found it a bit difficult to really let loose on camera. Afraid, perhaps, of being too obvious, or maybe it was just that he wanted to keep something just for the three of them, wanted to have it be special, as daft and sentimental as that made him.

So if it wasn't to be play fighting, it would have to be sarcasm. James checked his watch, then looked directly into the lens of the camera. ″And so,″ he said, ″at twenty three minutes past nine precisely, we got started. Probably.″

 

**Day 2, 5:17 pm: just outside of Bandirma, Turkey**

It took them most of the day, but they made it to their first stop with only three breakdowns along the way (the Lamborghini first and then the Mazda, briefly, and then the Lamborghini again just for good measure). They'd all spent the drive talking about Christmas memories from childhood – most of that would end up on the editing room floor, James knew, but they would probably get at least a few seasonally-appropriate minutes out of it – and blathering about their cars, qualities good and bad. Occasionally they'd all traded barbs on the radio, ranted about Jeremy's decorating choices (he'd put fake snow on the inside roof of the Mazda, and James kept getting his hair caught in it), made commentary about the horse-drawn carts that mingled among the cars in the villages. Some of the people in the horse-drawn carts had commented very loudly about the decorations on their cars; James had never been more grateful that he didn't speak Turkish. They'd stopped for lunch – of which Richard had eaten only baklava and a bit of rice – and then driven on while Jeremy delivered an impromptu monologue about Christmas decorations and his mother that had been both amusing and touching in turn.

Despite his tiredness, James had enjoyed himself. The rattle in the Mazda's dash had been mostly fixed with a bit of gaffer tape. The scenery was rather nice, the conversation amusing. Sometimes they were silent, because not even Jeremy could talk steadily for six plus hours, but it didn't feel forced. It just felt like they were being themselves. 

Eventually they pulled up at a site near the coast, and walked in to discover that it was a factory, one that made die-cast figures. James could have spent days there, really, finding out how each machine did what it did and how they worked together. ″This is brilliant,″ he said.

″Brilliant!″ Richard echoed, and when James looked over he found that Richard was smiling that big, boyish grin of his, the one that always made James want to kiss him. 

″Oh, Christ, I'll never get them out of here now,″ Jeremy whinged to the camera, but he let them get the whole way through the tour with an indulgent smile on his face. Then, of course, he started making disgruntled noises and demanding that they all get on with it.

Their task here was to spend a couple of hours painting soldier figurines, something that James thought himself eminently suited for. Even Jeremy took to the task with gusto, if not exactly with attention to detail.

″Er, Jez,″ said Richard, who was busily painting an artful gunshot wound onto the leg of his first soldier. ″What is that supposed to be?″

James looked over, and discovered that Jeremy was three soldiers in already, each of them splotched brown and green from head to toe.

″It's camouflage, you idiot,″ Jeremy said and then, when Richard opened his mouth to say something else, ″ _Full body_ camouflage. Obviously.″

″The trouble is,″ James said, ″that chap you're doing has a uniform from the 1600s. If you could be bothered to do it properly, which you obviously can't because you're a useless oaf, you'd know that he should have red trousers and a blue jacket, with red piping along the sleeves.″

″I'm sure they'd've done them in camo if they'd thought of it at the time,″ was Jeremy's response. ″Besides, if I do them like you we'll never finish. When you were a boy, would you have rather had one anally-painted soldier or _many_ soldiers painted any which way?″

James opened his mouth, but Jeremy carried on right over him. ″Well, obviously, god knows what _you_ would've liked as a child because I'm sure you were as mental about this sort of thing then as now, but most children would rather have lots of soldiers. And we've got to have more than one each, you know. I don't want to have to turn up to a hospital full of children and say, 'I'm glad you've all been very good this year, and as a reward Santa is giving you half a toy soldier. Attached to a different half, which is your brother's, so you'll have to share.'″ He grabbed for another unpainted soldier and smushed it gleefully into the mess of mixed paint. ″Just imagine a sea of children trying to attack half their army with the other half of their army. Literally.″

James rolled his eyes. ″There's a difference between being anal and being competent, Clarkson,″ he said repressively. ″Though I don't expect you've ever experienced enough competence to tell.″

″C'mon, Jez, you could at least put a little thought into it,″ Richard chimed in. He held his own soldier out at arm's length critically, then pulled it back and spattered it artfully with red paint. ″There we go. See? Done in good time, but not shoddy.″

″Hammond, this is supposed to be a toy, not documentary journalism!″ Jeremy said, and James barked out an involuntary laugh.

The bickering continued until the factory staff got tired of them, after which they ran all the soldiers through the oven and called it a day. They packed them up (and a few more besides, proper ones) and stored them away, Richard and James into the boots of their cars, and Jeremy into the passenger seat of his – and headed to the hotel.

For once, it wasn't a rat-riddled shack in the wilderness. James didn't know if Jeremy had put his foot down about the sleeping arrangements or if Andy had been experiencing a strange fit of Christmas-related mercy when he did the booking, but he was grateful either way. By then, they were all exhausted, and so other than a brief bit of film to show the hotel restaurant they didn't drag it out further, just stowed the cameras and had an easy dinner all together.

Despite their tiredness James half expected Richard or Jeremy to catch his eye across the table, give him the little raised eyebrow and smile that meant 'come to my room tonight?' He'd determined to say yes, if it came up. But the only thing either of them looked at interestedly was their dinner. James didn't know whether to feel relieved by that or disappointed. 

He could make the offer himself, of course – has done, in the past, when he was in the right mood. But tonight... just didn't feel like the night for that. And anyway it was only the first real night of the trip. Surely, he told himself, they'd have other chances.

 

**Day 3, 10:12 am: almost to Lüleburgaz, Turkey**

James had taken the wrong exit off the roundabout. The morning had begun with a ferry ride across the Sea of Marmara, a rather nice couple of hours spent watching the water, interrupted only occasionally by the sound of children vomiting. He'd driven off the ferry feeling almost optimistic.

And now he'd cocked it up by getting distracted and turning off too early. Worse, in the thirty seconds after he'd done so – watching the rear end of Richard's BMW disappear around the curve with resignation – he'd compounded the error by attempting to circle back in the direction he'd come, and had then almost immediately got lost in a warren of residential streets, each filled with identical-looking houses.

Eventually he admitted defeat and pulled over, just as the radio crackled.

″May, you pillock!″ said Jeremy. ″Where the bloody hell are you?″

James pressed the button on the radio to talk. ″No idea,″ he said. ″Still Turkey, probably? I haven't managed to get back on the ferry, at least.″

″Hilarious,″ Jeremy said. ″Hang on, we'll come and find you.″

_And how are you going to do that?_ James thought, but before he could say it, the speaker on the roof of his car began playing 'Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer' at an astounding volume. _Ah,_ he thought. 

 

**Day 3, 1:34 pm: somewhere in Bulgaria**

The Lamborghini had broken down again. Yesterday Jeremy had graduated from moaning about his own uselessness and making James and Richard do all the work (breakdown #1), to making them do the work, but standing around offering 'helpful' suggestions every two minutes (breakdown #2). Today he seemed determined to decline all help entirely, blustering instead about manliness and self-reliance.

″Are you sure?″ James asked.

″How hard can it be?″ said Jeremy, deliberately, and then, ″Look, there's a decent looking restaurant across the road. I've already had Mike clear it with them to film in there and we're not expected at the next stop until six. Why don't you two go and get started on lunch, and I'll join you in a bit when I've got this all fixed up?″

James frowned. It wasn't like Jeremy to suggest anything that cut into his lunch. But given the number of times James had heard 'Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer' so far that morning, he wasn't particularly inclined to be charitable. ″All right,″ he said finally. 

Dave followed them across the road with one camera while Iain stayed behind to capture whatever it was Jeremy was doing. As they reached the door of the restaurant James stopped and caught Richard's elbow. They exchanged a glance of unspoken agreement. James hooked his fingers at Dave to get him to follow and they scrambled through the restaurant to a side window. Richard had to kneel up on a chair to see over the hedge outside, but a moment later they were both peering suspiciously at the activity around the Lambo.

″What's he _doing_?″ Richard said.

As they watched, Jeremy peered after them, then turned said something to Brian, their mechanic, who was standing off to one side in his standard supervisory position, hands on hips. After a moment, Brian put a hand to his chin, considering. Then Jeremy reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He handed Brian a wad of folded bills.

″That dirty cheating fucker!″ Richard said.

″Technically this isn't a race,″ James felt compelled to say. Richard turned on him, and he held up his hands in a placating gesture. ″He _is_ a dirty cheating bastard, I'll grant you.″

″He's cheating in the game of male dignity,″ Richard said, very angrily, but when James met his eye they both burst into laughter. ″All right, maybe not,″ Richard said, giggling.

″No,″ said James firmly.

″But we're still not going to let him get away with it.″

″Of course not.″ James steepled his fingers in contemplation.″C'mon, let's order a really nice lunch while he's out there pretending to know what he's doing.″

 

**Day 3, 3:16 pm: a different bit of Bulgaria**

The radio crackled.

″You know, this BMW really does have a very smooth _bribe_ — I mean, uh, _ride_ ,″ said Richard.

James sniggered. He reached down and picked up his own radio. ″That's nice, Hammond, but I think you'll find that my Mazda is faster than a _cheet_ ah.″

″What the hell are you two blithering about?″ said Jeremy.

″Oh, nothing,″ said Richard. ″Just saying how nice it is that our cars are working perfectly. How's yours, by the way?″

The radio remained silent.

″You never did say how you fixed it earlier,″ James said. ″I'm sure I speak for Hammond as well when I say that we'd love to hear all about it.″

Another moment of silence – and then Jeremy sped past him and James' speakers started playing 'Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer' again.

 

**Day 3, 8:56 pm: the bar of the Grand Hotel, Niš, Serbia**

″So,″ Richard said, sotto voce while Jeremy was at the bar. ″What's our plan to get our hands on those remotes? Because if I have to hear 'Jingle Bell Rock' one more time, I'm going to stab a reindeer in the face.″

Jeremy had gone easy on them the first day, perhaps just waiting for the right suitably horrible occasion, but after James' wrong turning that morning it was as if the floodgates had been opened. He'd deployed his weapon of mass sanity destruction whenever they were taking the piss, or driving too slowly, or even if his finger felt a bit itchy. James had heard 'Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer' nearly thirty times now, and was seriously considering drilling out his own eardrums. Or Jeremy's.

Yes, he decided. Something would have to be done. ″Break into his hotel room tonight?″ he suggested offhandedly and then, at Richard's suddenly gleeful expression, ″ _Not_ by setting it on fire or anything like that, for god's sake.″

″You're no fun anymore,″ Richard said, pouting.

Unexpectedly, the comment stung. James couldn't think why; it was no different than a million other ways Richard had genially slagged him off – and yet it was a real effort to roll his eyes and shrug it off. ″Yes, I know,″ he said, as casually as he could make it. ″What's _your_ brilliant idea, then?″

″I really like the idea of setting his room on fire,″ Richard said. ″But we could always fall back on just getting him pissed, if you want to be all sensible about it.″

″Would he really get that rat-arsed?″ James said, and then, ″What am I saying? Of course he would. And then you could pickpocket him, if you could manage it without getting carried away.″ 

″Why don't _you_ pickpocket him?″ Richard said. 

″Because unlike Birmingham, they didn't actually teach that where I went to school, you pikey.″

Richard huffed at him. 

″Anyway, I've just thought of why that won't work,″ James said. ″How do we know he's even got them on him, at the moment? If I were him I'd've squirrelled them away somewhere. Like the hotel safe, for example.″

″Argh!″ said Richard. 

James looked away to keep from smiling too obviously at Richard's frustration. As he did so, he caught Brian's eye down at the other end of the table, and an idea occurred to him. ″Wait,″ he said. ″Maybe we don't need to actually get them ourselves. We just need to make him _want_ to give them to us.″ 

With a quick look to make sure Jeremy was still occupied at the bar, James gestured Brian over. A moment later Brian slid into Jeremy's empty seat, and James said, bluntly, ″So. What do we have to bribe you with not to do any more work on that Lamborghini for the rest of the trip?″

 

**Day 3, 9:32 pm: still the bar of the Grand Hotel, Niš, Serbia**

They managed to get it all arranged before Jeremy came back, just. Brian would get a go in the new Zonda that was coming up for Richard to test when they got back – they'd have to manage it with the insurance somehow – and in return he wouldn't lift another finger for Jeremy. By the time Jeremy returned with his round, Brian was talking about his cousin's new Ferrari in a distinctly car-bore sort of way. James just smiled and nodded and tried to pretend he was paying attention.

Inside, though, he was thinking about Richard's comment, the one about him being no fun anymore. It had been a casual statement, careless even, but he couldn't quite get it out of his head and now that they weren't actively trying to pull one over on Jeremy, his mood had definitely soured.

Perhaps that was what they really thought, the both of them. Perhaps that was why neither of them had brought up what they were going to do next – because they were bored of Top Gear, bored of working with him and bored of sleeping with him, and they just didn't know how to tell him so.

James knew he wasn't as entertaining as Jeremy and Richard, not as flashy or exciting. He liked to think he had a few things going for himself, of course, and neither of his mates had ever seemed to have any complaints in bed (other than that scurrilous lie about him snoring). But… 

He still couldn't stop thinking about that damned comment. 'You're no fun anymore.' Maybe he really wasn't any fun. Maybe he never had been.

In the end, he waited until they were both talking to Iain, and then he slipped away back up to his room without saying anything to either of them.

 

**Day 4, 10:37 am: Belgrade, Serbia**

In the cold light of morning James had found it hard to hold on to his worries from the previous night. Jeremy was being cheerfully ridiculous, and Richard kept giving him little conspiratorial smiles. Everything seemed normal – perhaps too normal, considering they still hadn't talked, but James wasn't going to quibble about that.

Their stop this morning was a small factory that made beautiful, intricate glass baubles. James spent most of the tour torn between fascination with the process and terror at the thought of the impending property damage once the three of them started trying to 'help.' He didn't want to think about all the things Jeremy would probably set on fire. He didn't want to think about all the _people_ Jeremy would probably set on fire. Least of all himself.

Thankfully, about the time Jeremy started sniggering about the special oven that was called the 'glory hole,' it became clear that the producers were far too intelligent to let the three of them loose near 1700° molten glass, and they were only there to ooh and ahh and pick up some pre-wrapped packages.

″Oh, thank god,″ Richard said.

They carried their teetering piles of boxes outside, then stood around for fifteen minutes while Jeremy performed package Tetris to fit it all into the passenger seat of the Lambo alongside the boxes of toy soldiers from Turkey and the Matchbox cars they'd picked up in Bulgaria yesterday.

As they watched, Richard nudged James with his elbow. ″You all right?″ he said, quietly. ″Just, last night you seemed a bit...″

James blinked in surprise. He hadn't thought they'd've even noticed his disappearance – the fact that Richard was bringing it up set a little warm glow going in his stomach. ″Fine,″ he said. ″Just tired.″ And then, not wanting to be too sentimental, ″Five quid says he can't get it all in the car without breaking something.″

″Ten and you're on,″ said Richard.

When Jeremy finally got in the car, there was an ominous noise of wrapping paper crackling against itself, but it didn't appear as if anything had actually broken. ″A Christmas miracle!″ Jeremy proclaimed, closing the door very gently. James sighed and got out his wallet.

 

**Day 4, 4:27 pm: south of Győr, Hungary**

The Lamborghini had broken down _again_. It seemed determined to set itself on fire. Or perhaps, James thought, it was only that Jeremy persisted on driving like a complete madman, even though there was absolutely no reason to do so.

Jeremy had started out casting plaintive looks towards Brian, but apparently James and Richard's counter-bribe was holding, because all he did was cross his arms over his chest and look skeptical. Twenty minutes in, Jeremy was was reduced to standing in front of the open bonnet and shouting ″Why won't you just _work_?!″ at the engine.

″Why don't you fix it like you did before?″ Richard offered innocently.

″Yes,″ James added. ″You did such a magnificent job yesterday. I'm sure this will prove no more difficult to handle.″

″Go away,″ said Jeremy. A car went past them, honking vigorously.

″We just want to express full confidence in your ability to mend things,″ said Richard.

″Go away before I set your hair on fire,″ Jeremy said.

″Touchy, touchy,″ said Richard.

The two of them retired to the fading grass of the road shoulder and the anemic autumn sun, and watched him bang vaguely at the engine. More cars went past, honking – one of them even had a teenage boy hanging out of the passenger's side window with a video camera.

″D'you think we'll actually make it?″ Richard asked. Dave had a camera on them, but neither of them was making much of an effort to say anything entertaining. ″I mean, cars and presents and all? Or will it go horribly wrong— well, more horribly wrong than it's already gone horribly wrong, anyway, and we'll end up telling the children that Santa's sleigh just had a sliiiiight mishap with its carburetor and he'll be here any minute now, no really...″

″Where's your Christmas spirit?″ James said, just to make him wince.

″Oh, god, not you, too!″ said Richard.

″ _Stupid_ thing,″ said Jeremy loudly, kicking the bumper. Unsurprisingly, this failed to have any restorative effect whatsoever, and after a moment they went back to mostly ignoring him.

″Seriously, though,″ said Richard. ″Do we have an actual chance of success?″

James considered it. He suspected, given that this was the Christmas special, that the producers really would step in if it looked like they weren't going to make it. A failure in the middle of the desert or in Vietnam was one thing – a failure in front of sick children was something else entirely. But it wouldn't do to say that on camera. ″I think you should start preparing your sad speech,″ he said. ″Do you want to make a list of appropriate platitudes? You could start with 'Good things come to those who wait.'″

″You know, I don't actually want to be lynched by a mob of ten year olds,″ Richard said.

They sat in silence for another few minutes. Eventually Richard made a circular gesture with one hand and Dave turned the camera away, started recording the scenery instead. 

″Listen, mate,″ Richard said, barely audible. ″Jez and I have been talking. You know, about… once we're out of this—″

James' heart sank, and all of his fears from the night before came rushing back. There was nothing good that could come from a conversation that started with 'Jez and I have been thinking.' Not to mention 'out of this' – out of _what_? Out of this film, out of the show, out of the whatever-this-was that the three of them were doing? He didn't know which of those Richard meant, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Abruptly, he was furious. Maybe it would be better if they didn't talk about it at all. If the two of them wanted to go off without him, then let them do it. They didn't have to make it worse by having some sort of tortured conversation about their feelings. 

He opened his mouth to say something sharp to that effect, but just then Jeremy came over, looking thoroughly downhearted. Dave brought the camera back around. James sighed and pushed everything to the back of his mind, set himself in cocking-about mode and conjured up a smirk instead of the snarl that wanted to come out. After so many years he could do it more or less instinctively, when he had to.

Jeremy mumbled something long and grumbly; it sounded a bit like 'loopy scum nix my ammo.'

″I'm sorry, what was that?″ said Richard, cupping his hand to his ear dramatically.

Jeremy sighed. ″Will you _please_ come and fix my Lambo?″ he said, enunciating each word.

James and Richard began to snigger. ″Oh, is it broken?″ James asked. ″I hadn't noticed. I thought you just fancied a spot of shouting. So you want us to come and fix it, do you?″

″I don't know, mate,″ said Richard.

″Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease?″ Jeremy said, folding his hands together in prayer.

″Tell you what,″ said James. ″Give us those bloody remotes and we'll come and fix it.″

Jeremy pouted for a long moment, but in the face of their blandly expectant expressions he finally reached into his pocket and pulled out the remotes. ″Fine.″ He tossed one to each of them. ″Here. Now will you hurry up and fix it so we don't have to tell all the children that we're doing Christmas in July this year?″

 

**Day 4, 9:56 pm: Hotel Stadt Melk, Melk, Austria**

James stood at the window of his hotel room, looking out at the view of the lit streets and the river below, but without really taking it in. He'd claimed a headache after dinner, escaping to his room rather than join the others in the bar, but now that he was here, he couldn't actually sleep.

He was overthinking it all, he knew that. If Richard and Jeremy had wanted to break things off, there were a thousand ways they could have done it that didn't involve Richard starting the conversation three feet from a camera. But the fact that the two of them had been talking without him – he just couldn't shake the worry that they'd made some sort of decision already.

God, he was going to be a miserable old sod without them. 

His phone beeped once, and he checked it almost absently. There was a text from Jeremy. 'Still up?'

For a moment he considered answering; they could have it all out now, get it over with. But no – they still had the rest of this film to get through, and he didn't quite think he'd be able to hide how unhappy he was if this really was the end of it. No, better to put it off, let himself have at least a little hope to go on for the next few days. 

He deleted the message.

 

**Day 5, 11:36 am: near Schwandorf, Germany**

The rattle in James' Mazda was back, considerably worse than before. The gaffer tape he'd put on was still holding strong, which meant there was something else loose behind the facade, something he couldn't get at without taking it all apart. That would have to wait until their overnight stop – they were expected somewhere this afternoon, so they hadn't time to stop and wait unless something seriously broke down. And for once, it looked like the Lamborghini was running smoothly.

It was driving him mad.

He had slept, in the end, but not as much as he would have liked, and even what sleep he'd got had been filled with confused dreams. Even his eyeballs felt tired. To make things worse, Jeremy had tried to take him aside at breakfast; James had brushed him off with a comment about needing tea, which was reasonable enough that Jeremy hadn't called him on it but not, James thought, actually convincing. He could tell that his preoccupation was becoming obvious. 

The rattle was beginning to make his teeth ache. And now the other two had started bumping him. It was just Jeremy at first, nudging into the back of the Mazda as they waited at a stoplight. 

The radio crackled. ″Oops, sorry, May.″ James rolled his eyes and didn't respond.

Then, two lights further on, it was Richard. ″Sorry, mate.″

And then again, at the next light. ″Sorry,″ Jeremy said. ″Foot slipped.″

And again. ″Foot slipped again.″

James was gritting his teeth. 

Then Richard again. ″Sorry, mate. Think these brakes might be a bit dodgy.″ There was a grin in his voice.

Each hit seemed to make the rattling a bit louder. They passed out of the edge of town and the stoplights gave way to open road, the scenery dotted with farms. James slowed to let someone pull out ahead of him and Jeremy bumped him again; this time it was hard enough that it practically rattled James' _skull._.

Something in him snapped. He lifted the radio. ″Pull over.″ It came out clipped enough that they must have taken it seriously; ahead of him, the crew car slowed, then pulled off onto a long stretch of the shoulder. James did the same, seeing the other two follow suit in his rearview mirror.

When he got out, Iain was already clambering out of the back of the Land Rover with the camera, but James gave him a sharp shake of the head and dragged his hand across his throat. ″ _Off_ ,″ he said, turning away.

Jeremy climbed out and swung the Lambo's door shut. ″What's the problem?″ he said breezily. The ease of it made James' mind go blank with rage. He barreled up to Jeremy, shoved him back against the side of the car.

″The problem?″ he said. ″The problem is that you two are being a pair of utter twats, and if you don't cut it out I've half a mind to take you out into that field and—″

″And what?″ Richard said, coming up beside them. ″Take us out there and actually have a conversation?″

″Take us out there and finally reveal what's been up your arse for the last two days?″ Jeremy suggested.

″Or are we still pretending that everything is fine and fucking dandy?″ said Richard.

The pair of them working together took all the wind out of James' sails. That was the way it had always been; he could keep people at a distance, and did, but not Jeremy, not Richard. Especially not the two of them together. That was at least half of why he loved them – because they didn't just take him at face value the way that most people did.

He sagged back, looking from Richard to Jeremy and then back again, weighing up various responses. ″Possibly,″ he said at last. ″You didn't have to go about it in such a cack-handed manner, though.″

″James, you haven't been in the same room with either of us without at least two other people present the whole bloody trip!″ Jeremy said.

″I—″ James said, and then, ″yes, all right. That isn't the point.″

″Then what is?″ asked Richard. 

″That it is absolutely one hundred percent your fault for letting me be a cock.″

The two of them stared at him for a moment, and then they all three burst into laughter. James felt something in him ease loose, something he hadn't even known was knotted up. It felt good to laugh, really laugh, and not just snigger or smirk.

″Look,″ Jeremy said, when he could talk again. ″James.″ He took James' hand in his own, just out of view of the crew, and gave it a gentle squeeze. ″What is this all about?″

″Whatever's going on in your stupid head,″ Richard added, ″just tell us.″

James blew out a breath. He might as well own up to it, seeing as how they clearly weren't going to let it go. ″I don't want this to fall apart if we stop doing the show,″ he said finally, and then it all came out in a rush. ″I don't even know if I _want_ to stop doing the show, or if I want to do another couple of years, or… but either way, I can't do it without you two. I don't want— I don't want the two of you to get sick of me.″

″You bloody fool,″ Jeremy said. ″Of course we aren't going to do anything without you. What on earth made you think that?″

″I don't know,″ James said helplessly, and then, ″Hammond said you two had been talking—″

″Oh, for— talking about whether we'd have this as the last series, you idiot. Not about whether we'd do away with you.″ 

″Oh,″ James said stupidly. 

″As if we ever would,″ said Richard. He thumped James on the arm. ″You plonker, you're indispensable. Which you would know if you ever let me finish talking instead of leaping to conclusions.″

″Well,″ James said. ″Good. That's good.″ He knew he sounded like an idiot, but he didn't particularly care.

″Come on up to my room tonight,″ Jeremy said, giving his hand another squeeze and nudging Richard's leg with his knee. ″After dinner, the both of you. We can talk about the show then. Andy says the BBC want to do three more years with us.″

″All right,″ James said. He let go of Jeremy's hand and took a step back, letting himself brush against Richard's arm as he did so. ″But if either of you bump my car again, I'm coming up with a shotgun.″

″Yes, yes,″ said Jeremy, waving him off. ″You're very very frightening and I'd rather not be killed to death.″ He put on his over-the-top German accent. ″Ve vill comply, mein herr!″

James rolled his eyes, but he could feel himself smiling. He turned around and caught Iain's attention – it took a moment, since the crew were very carefully looking at everything else but the three of them – and indicated that they were safe to carry on again. He climbed into the Mazda. Then he took a deep breath, and turned to the camera. ″After I finished murdering them just a little bit,″ he said, ″we got back on the road.″

 

**Day 5, 3:16 pm: west side of Bonn, Germany**

It was a candy factory.

″If you come over all _I Love Lucy_ and start stuffing things in your mouth,″ James said, ″I just want you to know that I fully intend to pretend I don't know you.″

Jeremy gave him a mock offended look. ″I wouldn't do that.″ He held the punchline just long enough that it got Richard to turn his head from the glass case full of brightly-colored candies. ″I'd just re-direct the conveyor belt into the boot of my car. Problem solved all around.″

″Your car hasn't got a boot,″ Richard pointed out. ″Also, that would be stealing.″

″So I'd use the boot of _your_ car, and frame you for the crime,″ Jeremy said. ″Then I'd have candy and I also wouldn't have to put up with your ugly mug.″

″Remind me why we haven't left him by the side of the road yet?″ Richard asked James.

″Children,″ James said. ″Sick children and the anticipation of their cute, tragically disappointed faces.″

″Ah, yes.″

″Come on, boys! Where's your Christmas spirit?″ Jeremy said brightly.

James wanted to kiss him rather desperately. Instead he said, ″Please stop saying that. It makes me want to murder you.″ He paused to consider, then added, ″More. It makes me want to murder you _more_.″

 

**Day 5, 10:54 pm: the M Hotel, Diest, Belgium**

They went up to Jeremy's room after the crew had gone to bed, Richard first and then James, texting when he was on his way up so that he didn't have to knock and draw attention to himself.

The afternoon had gone well, apart from a small incident with chocolate syrup which probably wouldn't see them being invited back to that factory any time soon. He and Richard had snuck off before dinner and bought Jeremy a truly terrible statue of a Wagnerian valkyrie, which he'd had to lash to the roof of the Lamborghini with twine.

Dinner had been good, too – they'd sat all together at one end of the table and enjoyed good food, good wine. They'd made each other laugh. And all the while James had been anticipating what came after.

He was a little apprehensive as he slipped in the open door. There was no reason to be – it wasn't as if the other two hadn't made themselves clear enough earlier – but he was anyway. But the door was barely shut behind him before Jeremy's hands were in his hair, tugging their mouths together. Richard's arms came around him from the side. James sighed into the kiss, letting the tension roll out of him. He hadn't realized just how much he'd been wound up just by the physical separation, how much he'd missed being touched. No wonder he'd got all caught up in his own head.

″Christ,″ Jeremy said, against his lips. ″Why did we wait so long for this?″

″Discretion,″ James managed, but it came out as a gasp; Richard's mouth was on his neck, his tongue tracing a slow path along the edge of James' collar.

″Sod discretion,″ Jeremy said. He kissed James' cheek and his jaw. ″We're never letting you out of bed again.″ He sounded a bit shaky. It occurred to James then, for the first time, that maybe Jeremy was just as unsure as he was. And if Jeremy could be unsure, then so could Richard. Maybe… maybe the two of them really did need him as much as he needed them.

He put one arm around Jeremy's waist, and the other around Richard's shoulders. ″Then who will make you bacon sandwiches?″ he asked.

″We'll order in,″ said Jeremy, kissing him again, lush and deep. His fingers began a slow massage over James' scalp, and James felt like he could quite happily melt into a puddle of goo just there on the carpet.

″You can't order in bacon sandwiches,″ he protested. He didn't quite know why he was protesting, except that it gave him something to do while being (apparently) slowly and carefully ravished.

″James.″ This was Richard, now scraping his teeth over skin, very carefully, just the way James liked it.

James shivered. ″Mmm?″

″Shut up about the sandwiches and take off your bloody trousers.″

 

**Day 5, 11:47 pm: still the M Hotel, Diest, Belgium**

Sweat was sticking the sheet to James' back, and Jeremy's leg was hot and heavy where it was slung over him. Richard's hair was tickling his chin. He couldn't bring himself to mind any of it. Along the way one of them had turned off the light, but he could hear them both breathing, not quite asleep.

In the darkness, Jeremy said, ″Chaps… I don't think I'm ready to be done with Top Gear yet.″

There was a pause. ″I don't think I am, either,″ said Richard.

″I suppose I wouldn't mind another three years of you two idiots,″ said James.

 

**Day 6, 6:43 pm: London**

They rolled into London just after rush hour, with a backdrop of honking and hollering and camera flashes. James was often a bit frustrated by all the attention they got, but today it just felt like an affirmation that they were doing the right thing, signing on for three more years. 

He'd climbed into the Mazda that morning to discover a bag of American hard gums tucked carefully into the center cup holder. Either Richard or Jeremy must have managed to buy them surreptitiously at the candy factory. The bag had been covered in a wrapping paper of cats wearing Santa hats. James may or may not have saved a square of it, folded up in his wallet.

When they pulled up in front of the hospital, he and Richard exchanged a look, then reached for the remotes for their speakers and set them off in unison. The resulting din almost – but not quite – drowned out Jeremy's laughter.

They stayed for a couple of hours after the delivery, signing autographs and taking pictures. Richard told the same terrible jokes over and over to different children, managing to make them sound fresh every time; Jeremy just came up with new jokes for every child. James couldn't do jokes, not like that, but he dutifully admired any and all handmade objects and half-finished projects, finding something to praise about even the most amateur of them, and when they finally said goodbye to the children and the staff he felt like he had done some genuine good.

They recorded a little bit of an ending, standing out front of the hospital with their three ridiculous cars. 

″Well done, chaps,″ Jeremy said quietly. James could tell that the last few hours had been hard on him; Jeremy loved children, always had, and most of his charity work involved them in one way or another. But though he was visibly tired, there was a sort of satisfaction to his expression, too, as if he felt the same small pride that James had felt, seeing all those little smiling faces.

″That was good,″ Richard agreed.

″Yes,″ said James. They all three shared a look. 

Then Jeremy grinned and clapped them both on the back, a broad, exaggerated gesture. ″I think the lesson from this trip,″ he said expansively, ″is that despite the occasional breakdown, the occasional chocolate incident – and the occasional light murdering – it has been a triumph for the car, a triumph for the three of us, and, if I may, the triumph of the Christmas spirit—″ 

He had to leave off then, because Richard and James started hitting him.

 

**Day 6, 8:56 pm: London**

″Back to mine after this?″ James said, as the crew began packing up. For the first time in a long time, it wasn't difficult to ask. 

″Absolutely,″ Jeremy said.

″I don't know,″ said Richard, and then, when they both turned to look at him, ″Will there be bacon sandwiches?″

″Pillock,″ James said, and swatted him on the back of the head.

″And then you two can help me figure out how I'm going to get this bloody thing back to my flat,″ Jeremy said, indicating the valkyrie statue that one of the crew had helpfully set next to his suitcase.

″Maybe you should get one of those drone things,″ Richard said. ″I mean, then you could airlift it home all on your own.″

″Sweeeeeeet!″ said Jeremy. ″And we could tape twenty quid to it and send it down to the shops for beer as well.″

_What could possibly go wrong?_ James thought, but he was smiling. As exhausted as he was now, as exasperated by the crowd of people with cameras, as nostalgic for the feel of his own bed – he was still glad they'd decided on three more years. Because it meant three more years of going places he'd probably never go on his own. Three more years of buying each other ridiculous presents, of listening to Richard whine about foreign food, of getting pissed on things like snake blood vodka, of playing airport shopping dare. Three more years of sneaking into each other's hotel rooms and having sex so good they had to keep hushing each other up; three more years of coming home and having it loud and rowdy in one of their flats that had superior sound insulation.

And even when the three years were over, they wouldn't lose all of that. Because he knew now that they would be with him no matter what. That they'd be together – all the way.


End file.
